


P.S. I've Always Known

by ice_hot_13



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ice_hot_13/pseuds/ice_hot_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the worst fear to have, the fear of finding out that despite every effort, it's always been obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 Desmond's greatest fear has always been that Shaun already knows. For all the effort he puts into hiding it, he wouldn't be particularly surprised if Shaun knows everything anyways. Shaun is brilliant. Desmond is transparent. He hates banking on Shaun's apathy towards him, as a reassurance that he hasn't been found out. Even now, as Shaun works at his laptop and doesn't look at him, Desmond keeps getting the haunting suspicion that he's transparent to Shaun. It's as comforting as devastating that, a lot of the time, Shaun seems to look right through him.

"What in the world are you doing?" Desmond whips around at Shaun's voice, but he's looking at Rebecca. Jealousy spikes through Desmond, but, admittedly, Rebecca is doing something far more out of the ordinary. Desmond has been lying on the couch, staring at the sleet hitting the windows, and Rebecca is teetering on top of a ladder, a string of lights in hand.

"Decorating for Christmas. What else?" Rebecca attaches another hook to the wall, and suspends the light strand along it, "I found these hooks that stick to the wall, they work perfectly."

"Lights go on the outside of a house," Desmond points out, sitting up to watch. Rebecca rolls her eyes at him.

"You want to go outside in this hailstorm, be my guest. Besides, this is supposed to be a warehouse, not a secret assassin bed and breakfast."

"This is a bed and breakfast? Since when?" Desmond protests, "because I so haven't been getting served breakfast. I deserve my money back."

"You may have to accept the fact that the manager just doesn't like you," Shaun replies, and Desmond hears him start typing again, "no surprise that we never get any work done around here," Shaun mutters under his breath.

"Shouldn't we get a tree, too?" Desmond says, just because he knows it'll irk Shaun. Shaun doesn't appear to have even heard him. Rebecca, though, turns and beams at him.

"That's the spirit! You know, Desmond, I think you're my favourite."

"I thought parents didn't pick favourites," Lucy's voice comes from the doorway. She inspects the room, amusement in her blue eyes.

"You said I'm your favourite when I moved the couch into this room," Desmond points out, and Lucy laughs.

"Siblings pick favourites all the time."

"So I guess the real question is whether you consider me your older, wiser, helpful brother, or-"

"My immature, never-learns-his-lesson, has-to-be-babysat little brother," Lucy finishes, smirking. "And speaking of, I'm making you pay the electric bill if you leave all the lights on in your room again."

"What am I supposed to pay it with? The secret assassins don't pay me, and Abstergo doesn't exactly have me on a payroll either. You're just asking me to go rob a bank, aren't you?"

"I think it'd teach you to conserve electricity." Lucy watches Rebecca continue to hang up lights for a moment. "We really do need a tree."

"There'd really be no point to that," Shaun contributes from his desk.

"Of course there is! Decoration, and a place to put presents!" Rebecca makes a face at him, but Shaun has already turned back to his computer. Desmond sprawls back on the couch, staring up at the string of red and green lights. Images float through his mind, as enticing as they are ridiculous: Shaun asking  _what do you want for Christmas,_ as if he doesn't know the answer is  _you, just you;_ Christmas morning,  _guess what I got you Desmond,_ and hope, so much hope, and then Shaun saying,  _me._ The idea of bows and a lack of clothing is there too, but Desmond halts his meandering thoughts before he can get into that too deeply. Hope is as painful as it is pointless.

"Anyone want to come?" Lucy is asking, and Desmond just blinks at her, having missed the entire conversation. "The store," she supplies, "for groceries. Seeing as we have nothing. As usual. Yes?"

"Uh, sure." Desmond casts a glance at Shaun, then Rebecca as an afterthought, "anyone else want to come?"

"I'm gonna stay and decorate more," Rebecca answers, now hunting around for more hooks in a box, "but pick me up popcorn."

"Please tell me you're not going to try and thread it all together," Lucy says, and Desmond rolls his eyes.

"Man, that takes forever. And you can't eat it!"

"You guys think I have the attention span for that? As if! Get the really buttery kind, would you?" Lucy turns back to her hunting, and Desmond looks to Shaun.

"Coming?" he asks, a stupid question. Shaun just shakes his head no.

Grocery shopping with Lucy is effortless, if less than interesting. She, like Rebecca, fills up silences with words, in a way that Desmond can't imagine Shaun ever lowering himself to do. It's like giving a gift to the silent listener, something Shaun would never do. He leaves that to Desmond, who babbles to fill up silences between them, makes him feel pathetic and desperate, and Desmond never wants to ask himself if that's Shaun's intention, used as a way to push Desmond away.

"I just love this time of year," Lucy is saying, studying the shelves of wheat bread. "All the Christmas decorations, everyone wishing each other well, it's all so nice."

"Yeah," Desmond says without thinking, "used to be my favourite holiday."

Lucy glances sideways at him, and he sees the curiosity on her face. "Are you going to visit your family?" Desmond shakes his head no.

"Haven't been home for Christmas since I moved out."

"Why not?" Lucy asks, pushing for more information. Desmond stares determinedly at the shelves before them.

"My dad isn't speaking to me anymore," Desmond says, and Lucy doesn't ask. No one ever does, because they assume the worst, because Desmond hasn't figured out a way to tell them that will get anyone to ask. He hates that this is always why he never admits anything, but this is what it always comes down to. Desmond always tells himself he'll confess when he's asked, but it's waiting for something that will never come.

Lucy is looking away and not asking for details, and Desmond can practically see all the things that will fall apart. His life has always been like this, the kind of waiting that's more like watching something that's always about to explode, waiting for the moment when he can think  _that's it, it's finally over, there's nothing left to wait for._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 Leonardo is in love with Salai.

Ezio has been in love with Leonardo since the day they met, and hating Salai is like an instinct, something he has to do to survive.

Watching Leonardo paint is one of the best parts of Ezio's life. Leonardo paints in beauty like it's an element, creates in beauty the way Ezio moves in space. This is one of those mesmerizing times when Leonardo paints without hesitation, like he's seeing something no one else can and is conveying it to canvas for the rest of the world to see. His paintings are like a glimpse into his mind, and there, everything is beautiful. Ezio has been in love with Leonardo for years, in the kind of way where he knows this is it, will always be it. This is the love that is supposed to save him. This is the love that will break him.

Leonardo's humming to himself as he paints the view outside one of the workshop's windows, although the painting is of a scene far more beautiful than what is truly outside; while Ezio dwells in the world he sees outside the window, clearly Leonardo is somewhere else, somewhere where the sky is a swirl of blues and the flowers all tiny instances of perfection.

Ezio could live here forever, in this one moment. Leonardo is wrapped up in the world of his art, a world he allows everyone else to see through his paintings, and Ezio is sitting at the table in the middle of the workshop, just watching. It's still impossible to understand, the way he wants Leonardo so much. This is nothing like the way it felt when every woman he met wanted to call him hers, nothing like that at all. This isn't finding someone he'd like to own for a while, this is finding where he belongs, finding someone he can't live without.

There's a knock on the door, and just like that, the most perfect in the world turns to the worst. Salai strides into the workshop, and Leonardo looks at him like this is the moment he lives for, the way Ezio feels about the moment that was just destroyed.

"Hello, Leonardo," Salai smiles, every kind of desirable. "Seems Venezia still swoons over your paintings, I've got three notes, all requests to have a painting commissioned."

"Ah, only because there are so few artists in the city!" Leonardo says, because his modesty is just another charm of his, as if he wasn't perfect enough before.

"Or perhaps because you're the best," Salai's words make Leonardo beam, and Ezio stares determinedly down at the table, wishing to be anywhere else, as Leonardo falls even more deeply in love with Salai, and Ezio learns that his heart really can just keep breaking, that it may never, never stop.

 _You deserve so much better,_ Ezio thinks, clenching his teeth as he listens to Salai and Leonardo.  _He's not worth it, he's not worth anything, and you deserve someone that would love you._ Salai is egotistical, has people throwing themselves at him, and Leonardo deserves to have someone that wants him as much. Ezio still refuses to believe anything but the fact that everything Leonardo loves about Salai is a lie, crafted just to ensnare saints that deserve better.

Ezio looks up reluctantly. Salai is talking, and Leonardo's hazel eyes are fixed on him, like he's amazing enough to capture in a painting forever. Some part of Ezio hates that Salai is good looking, it's like a personal affront, like the brown eyes and easy smile are mocking him. He's charming, he makes people adore him without doing anything besides smiling and offering a few words. Salai is so perfect it hurts.

Ezio sneaks out the back window while Leonardo talks to Salai. Outside, the sky spills sunshine, even though Ezio wants only rain, wants at least the sky to sympathize with him. Ezio ends up climbing to the top of a bell tower, where he sits and looks out at the water, at the ships that glide away from the city. He always wonders whether it would be easier to leave, to never come back, not have to see the way Leonardo loves Salai. It would be weak, but it would be easier.

This is what love is, Ezio realizes. It's wanting Leonardo so much, he'll suffer through watching Leonardo love someone else, if it means just getting to be with him. Being at the mercy of someone who is already breaking him without even trying is terrifying, and Ezio has to wonder whether Leonardo already knows the secret that has been burning Ezio to ash since the day they met.

Maybe Leonardo already knows Ezio loves him.

Maybe he loves Salai for the simple fact that he is not Ezio.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Packing always takes Shaun a ridiculously long time. It involves list-making, preliminary packing, folding, rearranging, actual packing, unpacking and more rearranging, and then, despite all this, last-minute re-checking, and always,  _always,_ occurs the morning of his departure. Shaun's always wished he could be more efficient, and that things could be more straightforward, wishes that for  _everything,_ but his method of packing is just like everything else he does. It's organized on the outside, and chaotic on the inside, and causes him stress no matter what it's in preparation for.

Rebecca's relentless chatter certainly isn't making things go any faster. She's sprawled across Shaun's bed, concentrating on cutting out paper snowflakes. Slivers of paper litter every inch of space in a three foot radius from her, and Shaun pauses in digging through a dresser drawer to glare at her.

"You have to clean all that up," he says, but all Rebecca does is grin and hold up the newest snowflake.

"I heard you can make edible snowflakes!"

"Please refrain from eating paper, Rebecca" Shaun says dryly, and Rebecca heaves a sigh.

"I mean, you make snowflakes out of tortillas and fry them and put powdered sugar on them!"

"Please don't do that in my bedroom, too." He turns back to his dresser, frowning. "It's probably going to be awfully cold there…"

"Probably? The weather there is like, permanently bad." The sound of snipping scissors pauses, "I wish it snowed here."

"I don't. Snow's miserable. All slushy and trampled on." He shakes his head, tossing a pair of gloves towards the suitcase open on the floor. "Maybe I shouldn't go." He stares down at his dresser, frowning. "Already bought the plane ticket though."

"Yeah, and told them you were coming. Break your mother's heart, why don't you," Rebecca arches an eyebrow at the way Shaun flinches at her words. Rebecca turns back to her snowflakes, keeping an eye on the tense set of Shaun's shoulders. "Besides, if you go, you'll get to have homemade food, see the snow, get to visit relatives," she lists, fishing for a reaction. "Pick out presents, decorate the house, see old friends, revisit places, um… see your cat…?"

"You'd make an astute therapist, Rebecca," Shaun rolls his eyes.

"Well, whatever. Make it easier for me!" she snips the scissors in his direction menacingly. "Therapy is  _hard."_

"Did it ever occur to you that I don't necessarily  _want_ therapy?" Shaun drops a few more long-sleeved shirts onto the pile on the floor. He sighs, then glances towards the door of the bedroom. It's closed, and the hallway beyond it is silent. "I'm just… considering telling my parents… some news, is all." Rebecca just looks at him, expectancy in her gray eyes. Shaun kneels to sort through the clothes piled atop his suitcase, keeps his eyes on the shirt he's folding. "I'm just slightly… nervous about it, is all." Outside, rain begins beating against the window, harsh and even. "They don't-" he pauses, steels himself, "it's just that they don't know I'm gay."

"They don't?" Rebecca asks, and Shaun's glare snaps up to her.

"I really love how unsurprised you sound about the whole thing," he says, and Rebecca laughs.

"Gee, sorry to break it to you, but I'm not blind or stupid, so I had some idea. But I can fake surprise if you want, watch, watch." Rebecca sits up on her knees, clasps her hands over her heart, " _Shaun!_ I had  _no idea!_ Why didn't you  _tell_ me? I feel so betrayed! All this time, you didn't tell me? I am  _so hurt!_ It's like you have this whole secret life that I didn't even know about, this whole other universe- how can you live with yourself, put us all at such risk! I'll have to notify the authorities- but-  _oh Shaun!_ "

"Rebecca, I'm gay, I'm not a secret serial killer," Shaun says, rolling his eyes again. "Slightly overdramatic."

"You asked for it," Rebecca sticks her tongue out at him. "But, whatever. It's not a big deal, Shaun, and it's not a big surprise." She flops back on his bed, sending a puff of paper shreds fluttering to the floor. "So, gonna tell your parents, huh?"

"Maybe." Shaun resumes packing up shirts. "I… maybe."

Outside, the rain keeps up its assault, and Shaun imagines snow frosted windows, imagines staring past his parents' shoulders and watching the snow fall as he forces out words he isn't ready to say.

0o0o0o0o

Irritating Shaun into noticing him is probably one of the most juvenile plans Desmond has ever come up with. Nonetheless, he's still working diligently on hanging up strings of paper snowflakes, courtesy of himself and Rebecca. In the years he'd lived alone after leaving his parents' house, Desmond had never really bothered decorating for Christmas; he was bent on using all the foregone enthusiasm to make this Christmas different from all the last.

"Know what'd be cool?" Rebecca's voice comes from somewhere across the living room. Desmond glances over his shoulder before returning to his attention to the piece of tape stuck to his finger, rises on his toes on the chair to push the string of snowflakes higher above the window. "Edible snowflakes."

"You can't eat paper." Desmond stretches to tape up the other end of the string, teetering dangerously, "I think it's bad for your- like – digestive system or something? Definitely your sanity."

"I don't mean  _these._  Jeeze, you and Shaun both thing I'm a crazy paper eater!" She flops down on the couch with a sigh. "I think you'd know if I was, by the way. Not something you can hide, I bet." Desmond shrugs a shoulder. "Speaking of, though."

"Hnnh."

"When did you come out to your parents?" Rebecca asks nonchalantly. Desmond's heart nearly stutters to a stop. He forces himself to draw in a breath, steady himself, then exhales.

"What?" He struggles to keep his voice even.

"You know. When did you tell them?" Rebecca's words are light as cappuccino foam, as if there's nothing heavy about this.

"I –" the words stick in his throat momentarily, "I didn't – uh – think you knew."

"Well, I could tell."

"You could tell," Desmond repeats, something in him sinking, lurching sickeningly.

"Tell?" Lucy's voice breaks in. She closes the living room door behind her. Desmond hears the barest strain of Rebecca whispering. "Oh."

"Whatever, it's fine." Desmond pauses for a moment, makes himself breathe, and goes on. "I told my parents when I was twenty-two. Well- told my dad, anyways." He studies the window before him, the cold panes fogged over. "My mom passed away when I was twenty. So she – she never knew." He tries, really tries, not to betray how much this  _haunts_ him, but isn't sure how successful he is. But – if Rebecca knew, what if his mother did too? What if she knew, died disappointed in him, waiting for him to tell her? Desmond shoves away the thought, focuses reluctantly on Lucy and Rebecca, seated side by side on the couch, eyes on him.

"Is that why you don't go home?" Lucy asks softly. Desmond nods.

There's nothing more anyone else can say, really, and the room stays quiet for the rest of the afternoon.

Shaun leaves in the evening, but Desmond doesn't realize it until later that night, because Shaun doesn't find him to say goodbye.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The more Ezio sees Salai, the more he hates him. He looks at Salai with a hurt disbelief, can only think  _this is who Leonardo is in love with?_ It's almost an insult, that the man he loves has chosen  _this,_ that Leonardo does not want him, wants  _this_  instead. Ezio never thought he'd actually believe Salai is _better_ than him, but he must be. Leonardo loves him, and this makes him infinitely better than Ezio, a realization that burns Ezio to his core.

"It is so nice of him to deliver messages to me so quickly," Leonardo is swooning as soon as Salai has closed the workshop door behind him. "I- Ezio, where are you going?" Ezio has leapt to his feet, dashing for the door before realizing the abruptness of his actions. He freezes, already halfway to the door.

"I just saw one of the military captains walk by," he blurts out, and Leonardo nods, smiles like he understands completely. He does, he always does, this is one of the things that Ezio  _loves_ about him. He doesn't even flinch as Ezio sprints out the door.

This plan is as half-formulated as many of Ezio's plans are. The last-minute ones all look like this; he scrambles up the nearest wall, sprints in a headlong dash across clacking roof tiles, throwing himself across gaps in great leaps with almost too much momentum, careening around corners to keep his target in sight. He ducks around a chimney to avoid a guard, teeters across a thin board, and finally comes close enough to Salai to slow down his hectic pace slightly. Salai is knocking on a door, another courier note in hand. The woman who opens the door has hair like dark seaweed, and tan arms that she pulls Salai in with.

When Salai kisses her, Ezio feels the pain as if he were Leonardo, hopelessly in love with this man, and it only gets worse from there. Among the next seven deliveries, four are the same. Four beautiful women, blissfully unaware, eager to claim one of Venezia's most handsome men, claim him for the moment.

Ezio could have tolerated that. Even though his instincts tried to convince him to tear Salai apart for daring to do something that could hurt Leonardo, Ezio could have held himself back. Salai belonged to no one. He'd made no promises. If it was just that, Ezio could have left it alone. Fiercely bitter and filled with anger, but he could have left it alone.

Then he followed Salai to a party, and it was only out of consideration for the other guests that he didn't murder the heartless man.

"Good day for tips, was it?" Salai's friend remarks as Salai pays for another drink. Salai laughs.

"Every day is a good day!" he says, raising a glass to his friend, "the lovesick are always overflowing with gratitude."

Ezio returns to Leonardo's workshop, because spending another moment within killing distance of Salai would surely result in catastrophe, albeit a satisfying one. When he gets there, he finds Leonardo humming and painting a beautiful cottage onto the canvas. He only does this on days he sees Salai; Ezio can only guess that these pictures are of places Leonardo dreams of living with Salai. He's seen villas bathed in sunlight, wooden homes in the forest, cozily cluttered rooms high above the canals, and now this cottage by the sea, adored with bright flowers.

"That's beautiful, Leonardo," Ezio says quietly, standing at his shoulder. Sometimes Leonardo doesn't appear to hear Ezio at all; other times, like now, he turns and beams at Ezio. Ezio loves this smile, but the part of him that hates being hurt prefers it when Leonardo doesn't look at him.

 _You're not special to him,_ he aches to tell Leonardo, while at the same time wanting to shield Leonardo from that horrible truth forever.

"Is something wrong?" Leonardo looks at Ezio like he already knows, and is waiting for Ezio to confess. Ezio shakes his head no. He can't tell Leonardo, just  _can't_ tell him that less than ten minutes after Leonardo swooned over Salai, Salai was kissing that beautiful brunette, as if he'd never met someone so perfect as Leonardo.

His only consolation is that he is nothing like Salai. It's not much consolation, because Salai is everything Leonardo wants, but it's something.

 


	5. Chapter 5

The house is a good deal quieter during the day without Shaun. As much as he complains about needing quiet when he's working, he can never keep it up for long, always discussing his findings with whoever's in the room. Desmond's learned quite a bit by spending his time where Shaun works.

By the time the evening rolls around, Desmond is bored out of his mind. He ends up at the kitchen table, stabbing grapes with toothpicks and building a rather sorry-looking castle with them.

"Whatcha doin'?" Rebecca wanders into the kitchen at eight, leans down to look at Desmond's half-castle. He ran out of toothpicks, so it only has two walls and three turrets.

"Nothing," he grumbles, poking at his castle. The stability is pretty good; it's the sort of thing he'd brag about to Shaun, because really, all he's got going for him is this talent-lite kind of stuff. Some people are great at physics, and he can puzzle out the physics of grape castles. It sounds worse the more he thinks about it.

"You sure?" Lucy says, coming in, "looks like you're creating the next Taj Mahal there."

"Naah, I think that'd look better with kiwis, not grapes," Desmond counters.

"Kiwi!" Rebecca suddenly bursts out, making both Desmond and Lucy stare at her. "That reminded me! There was a drink I wanted to make, and it had kiwi!"

"We don't have any kiwis," Desmond points out.

"And you don't have any talent with making drinks, anyways," Lucy adds. Then she smiles, turning to Desmond. "You, on the other hand…"  
"Exploiting me as your personal bartender?"

"Oooh!" Rebecca looks up from the grape castle, "please, please, please!"

An hour later, Desmond has thoroughly wowed the girls with his memorized repertoire, from grape mojitos to Jack and Coke, with several other cocktails in between.

"I've changed my mind," Rebecca decides, for the fifth time, " _this_ is my favourite." She and Lucy are sitting at the counter across from Desmond, watching him mess with the overly technical shaker and stack pretzels.

"More Sex on the Beach," Desmond informs her, making Lucy laugh.

"What's the difference between that and the original?"

"This is sweeter, the original is sorta citrus-y."

"The original is my favourite." Lucy says. Both the girls are surprisingly good drinkers; not the best Desmond has ever seen, but better than a lot of people.

"Mine's Long Island iced tea," Desmond says, concentrating on setting a fifth pretzel on the stack before him.

"Oh, I've had that!" Rebecca grins, "I went out with Shaun, and that was on the menu and he said it was like, seven kinds of alcohol put together."

"Four," Desmond corrects automatically, then frowns. "You went out with him?"

"Yeah! A new place had opened up downtown, and we were gonna go there, but they were closed, so we went to the place across the street," Rebecca sounds like she's prepared to go on, but suddenly stops and peers at Desmond. "Why do you ask?"

"I just, uh, was wondering. I wouldn't have thought you guys – I mean, as a – you know, a couple – thing." For some reason, this makes Rebecca burst out laughing.

"Me and Shaun?" she finally manages, still giggling, "oh, man!  _Me_ and  _Shaun!"_

"Well, you did say –" Desmond starts to protest.

"We went out like, we went out to a restaurant," Rebecca seems to do her best to stop laughing, but then Lucy starts giggling.

"You guys together would be hilarious," she says, "Oh, my God. I can't even imagine."

"Yeah, I think I'm not quite what he's looking for," Rebecca says, and it's all Desmond can do not to demand to know what, exactly, he  _is_ looking for.

"No, really?" Lucy laughs.

"Why not?" Desmond asks in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone. From the way Lucy arches an eyebrow when she looks at him, he's pretty sure it failed.

"Personality clash, for starters," Rebecca says, "also, we could never do vacations together."

"Well, seeing as you want to jump out of helicopters into avalanche territory, you wouldn't be good for me, either," Desmond says, "or any other sane human being."

"You've all got a chronic lack of excitement," Rebecca shakes her head. "It's sad." She looks at him critically, smiles in a way that makes Desmond suspicious. And worried. "You taking notes or something?"

"Why would I do that?" He can't help the defensive note, and neither girl seems to miss it.

"Oh, no reason," Rebecca says cheerily, and then starts talking about the restaurant she'd gone to with Shaun. They don't mention it again, but Desmond just knows they've figured it out.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Desmond traditionally spent Saturdays harassing Shaun while he worked. Deprived of his favourite activity, he had no choice but to let the girls ensnare him in their Christmas shopping –  _all day_. By the time they finally come home, he's ready to sleep for days. Possibly weeks. They dragged him through the mall, in seemingly endless and inefficient circles, and if that hadn't done him in, standing in lines would have done it.

He gets as far as his room before the phone started ringing, and Lucy yells for him to answer it. Desmond grabs the phone off the coffee table and collapses on the couch. "Yeah?"

"Delightful greeting, that," Shaun's voice greets him, something he was not expecting.

"Well, I wasn't expecting it to be  _you,"_ Desmond said, grinning despite himself. "Man, I'm so glad it's you!" There's a brief silence.

"You are?" Shaun asks, suspicion in his voice.

"So much! I spent the whole day with the girls, and wanted to  _die."_

"Oh, poor you, spending time alone with two women," Shaun snickers. "I'm sure men everywhere just weep for you."

"Laugh it up."

" _Mort de rire."_ Shaun says, and it makes Desmond glad he doesn't live in France, because then he'd hear this all the time, and it's all kinds of irresistible. Then again, it would be pretty great, too.

"Which means?"

"It's the French version of 'laughing out loud.' It means 'dying of laughter.' A good deal more expressive, in my opinion." Shaun's accent seems a little stronger. It kind of makes Desmond's head spin, in a really good way.

"When did you even learn French?"

"Since I was eleven. It's not that great, though."

"Coulda fooled me, and everyone in France."

"Well, I still don't understand the subjunctive."

"Hey, me neither!"

"You speak French?"

"Well, no, but I don't understand what subjuctive means, so."

"Sub _jun_ ctive."

"Exactly what I said."

"Except not," Shaun counters, and there's none of the usual bite he's usually got. Desmond's not quite sure what to make of this, except that he likes it. Also, he's been on the phone for over two minutes; it's definitely a personal record. And  _weird._ But also, he's talking to Shaun, so maybe the rules are being bent a little bit, for him.

It catches Desmond off-guard, quite a while later, when he realizes they've been talking for two hours.  _Two hours._ He's pretty positive that if he added up all the time he's spent on the phone in his entire life, it wouldn't break an hour.

"What time's it over there?" he asks, after Shaun tells him about his family's dog, who knocks over the Christmas tree every single year.

"Uh," there's some noise, presumably as Shaun looks for a clock, "one thirty."

"Oh, fuck, I didn't realize that." He doesn't offer to get off the phone, though. "What was it you were calling for?" This makes Shaun laugh.

"Two hours after I call, and you ask me that?"

"I forgot! Plus, if it was a matter of life or death, I'm sure you woulda told me by now!" Desmond protests, to further laughter.

"Lucky for you, there was nothing pressing. Or anything, actually. Although seeing as it's one, I should probably get going, get some sleep."

"It's only one! Man, you would fail at partying."

"Sorry to disappoint, but there's no party going on here. Everyone in the house is asleep, and it's fairly dark."

"Dark isn't an excuse, you know."

"You would know."

"Obviously." Desmond sits up. "Hey, it's dark here too!"

"Oh, you are  _observant."_

"Practically got night vision."

"If you did, you would probably have noticed it getting darker sooner."

"Says you."

"Says  _physics._ There's no colour in the dark. If you could still see, it'd all be black and white."

"There's no colour in the dark?"

"Light makes colour, so no."

"What about underwater?"

"I suppose that, at the far depths, it'd be too dark for colour, too."

"In space?"

"If there's a sun nearby, then there would be."

"Black holes?"

"I've really no idea."

Another hour goes by before Shaun says, "now it's two AM," like he's very surprised about it.

"You should probably go," Desmond says reluctantly, "unless you wanted to talk to the girls or something?"

"Maybe another time, they're probably busy," he says, doesn't sound particularly bothered about it.

"Probably, haven't seen em since I got back. I think they're decorating again, though. Rebecca thought a house thing without lights looked suspicious."

"Maybe they'll think we don't celebrate Christmas."

"So we're Jewish?"

"I don't know. I'm not."

"Me neither. I'm nothing."

"Me too. Except I do Christmas."

"Well, everyone does. Still three days left, though. When're you coming back, again?" he asks, like he just thought of it and hasn't been wondering it since Shaun left.

"The second."

"That's a long time," he tries to say this nonchalantly.

"Yeah. But I can, um, text and stuff."

"Oh really?"

"I mean, hypothetically. If the situation should arise."

"Well, then, considered it arised. Or, risen."

"I haven't got your number," Shaun says, and rattling it off for him is a thrill, because there's something innately exciting about giving it to someone, to _Shaun,_ this direct connection to him.

"I'll talk to you later, then," Shaun says. "Right?"

"Yup, for sure." The next week doesn't seem as daunting, with this promise in hand. Even so. He'd still rather Shaun was here, though. Desmond already misses talking to him. He imagines this is the way Ezio feels, when he's so far from Leonardo – like maybe, being this far apart is wrong, even though there's nothing that could prove it.

After he's hung up, the room seems numbingly silent, but Desmond's still got Shaun's words repeating in his head, so he's kind of okay with it.

His phone beeps; there's a text message that reads  _there is light in quasar jets, because of charged particles spiraling through a magnetic field – synchrotron radiation. A quasar is in the centre of a galaxy surrounding its central supermassive black hole. They emit light ranging through the spectrum. So yes, technically there is color even in black holes, even though some of it's not colour humans can see._

Desmond finds this somehow comforting, knowing that somewhere out in space, there are secret colours no one can see, but exist all the same.

 


End file.
